Always Death Always Falling
by LovelyFangirls
Summary: John's been having nightmares rather frequently now. He wakes up frightened and panting. They're always about someone dying. Why is he having these dreams? Why does it hurt so much? Why are they all so vivid? Everyone around him keeps dying. (My summary sucks I'm sorry) FINALLY FINISHED! SORRY EVRYBODY! :S M for a lot for reasons... just trust me here...
1. Annie

_When I think about it, I feel sick. I don't want to move, just want to sleep. I just want to stay curled up in my little cave, all alone and warm. Hopefully warm. People are starting to make me nervous. I don't want to talk to anyone. Can't you see I'm in pain!? The people I call friends ignore me. Do you even care?! If you know I'm hurting, why aren't you doing anything? Or is it maybe that there's nothing you can do. There is no way out of it. This is the end of the line. I'll be miserable forever. I feel sick. I want to cry. Crying doesn't help anymore, and sleeping gives me dreams that leave me awake and panting. I don't like how it is. Sure, I look happy. That's only to the people who don't see the real me when they look my way. Do I even have friends? Should I be allowed to love? My feelings get trampled over. Spat on. Neglected. Ignored._

_It's time to go. I want to go. I'm done. Please forgive me._

Shaking fingers pressed lightly on the paper, as if the words were something to be scared of. With a determined start, the letter was folded and placed into an envelope. Scattered breaths rang as that shaky hand placed it gently on a bright pink pillow. Her pillow. It was all going to be okay. Just a burden anyway. They said so themselves. All of them. Bare feet slid sluggishly along the white carpet, over to the balcony. With a deep breath, the girl climbed onto the ledge, pulling out a mobile.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry."

"Annie? Annie what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry I was ever a burden to you. I'm also really sorry about everything I said before, I'm sorry that I really just wanted to be loved. That's all."

"Annie... we've been through this, I-"

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"Annie."

"Goodbye."

"Annie?"

"Annie!"

The mobile lay abandoned on the balcony, its owner gone. The voice screaming vain cries of worry in reply to the sound of car horns honking at the body in the street. The body littered with blood from a girl who was much too young. Much too afraid. Much too hurt.

"Sherlock!" John gasped as he jolted in his bed.

Another nightmare. To his delight, Sherlock came running in, a cup of tea already in hand. This was becoming a sort of habit. Sherlock already didn't sleep, and John's nightmares were steadily increasing in their intensity. They were too real. It was strange. Always death, always falling.

"Drink this." Sherlock passed the small mug to John, satisfied after hearing a relaxed sigh. "Are you sure you shouldn't see a doctor about this?"

"I _am_ a doctor Sherlock. It's not something you could just prescribe some pills for."

"I've been reading about it myself. You're definitely a strange case John." Sherlock sat down near John's legs, careful not to land on them. "You can't think of anything at all?"

John chuckled sadly, "You're the genius." He took another sip of his tea before continuing, "If you're stumped then we've got nothing."

"Well, what was the dream about this time?"

John started to tell Sherlock all about it, about Annie, about falling, everything. Sherlock sat there silently, just taking it all in.

There was a bit of silence, not exactly a bad one, but it was sad. It was almost like an apology. Sherlock couldn't do anything to help his friend. John was his only friend. He was a genius for crying out loud! Why didn't he know how to fix this? It was still early morning, but it was so quiet in their room that John could swear he heard London waking up. Some cars started while others softly drove down the streets. John could swear he even heard a few birds. How rare. It was beautiful, but still almost sad.

John tried to ignore Sherlock's gaze as he sipped at his tea. "You going to keep staring at me or can I go back to sleep?"

Sherlock seemed to snap back to reality after that. He cleared his throat as he stood. With a brief and slightly awkward nod, Sherlock turned and left. Leaving John alone to stew on the dream a bit more. This wasn't the first frightening death he'd seen first hand. Every time he had these dreams, they were people he'd never seen. He'd never heard of, and it was all as if it was him. He saw through Annie's eyes as she jumped. He saw the blood pool from his own head it seemed.

John shivered. What did this mean? Always death. Always falling. Always sad.


	2. It's Real

John tagged along behind Sherlock past the yellow caution tape. This was after all a crime scene, he shouldn't technically be here. He watched Sherlock work. Examining the blood stains around what would be the head, pointing out where the victim would have fallen. Then the crew went into the building. Lestrade debriefed them in the elevator.

"You know that technically John shouldn't be here right?" Lestrade asked.

"He's my assistant."

"Sherlock.."

"Just debrief us, you've never had a problem with him before." Sherlock bluntly stated, making the D.I. cough uncomfortably.

"Yeah, the victim was a girl, about 21. She lived here on her own. She's got some family, but they all said she was really happy. She didn't have any reason to commit suicide. There were some claw marks on the balcony so the men called it in, I thought maybe you could take another look around and see if there was really anything fishy. You know, just in case." Lestrade handed a folder to Sherlock, who carelessly flipped through it.

"'Just in case'? What's really going on here Lestrade? There's a witness who claimed to be talking to her on the phone. This couldn't be anything _but_ a suicide." Sherlock pushed the file into the D.I.'s arms.

"I just wanted to be sure."

"Lestrade, what's going-"

"You obviously didn't look close enough Sherlock. Read it again and think." Lestrade seemed to be trying to send Sherlock a message, one that wasn't getting across.

"What-"

The elevator let out a high ding signaling their arrival. John followed Sherlock out, trying to peek over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of this mysterious case. By the time they'd reached the door to apartment 243 A, Sherlock had already read the case file front to back. He exchanged understanding glances with Lestrade. John was getting curious now. Sherlock ushered him in this time. What in the world?

"Sherlock what are you-"

The two men just looked at each other, almost saddened by John's ignorance. He really wanted to understand now.

"Just have a look around John." Sherlock gently pushed the doctor in.

"Sherlock!" John tried to spin around, but lost his balance and fumbled.

That was the first piece of the puzzle. John brushed his hand along the white carpet, before quickly lifting himself off the floor. He looked around. There was a bedroom. John raced to it, finding a pick pillow resting perfectly on its bed. John could feel his head spinning as he exited into the main room, his eyes resting on a balcony door. It was open. John raced out to it, it was the same balcony. There it was. John carefully picked up the pink phone that rested on the floor. This was Annie's apartment.

John nearly tripped again as he ran out to the two men waiting in the doorway. "Sherlock! This is Annie's apartment!"

"We know John. I told Lestrade about it yesterday wondering if he could help..."

Lestrade took over the conversation, "It was just like the suicide the night before." Lestrade took a partial step forward, trying to keep John calm. "John, your dream happened almost a day before she died. That's a weird coincidence."

John felt like glaring at them. What was this? Some kind of elaborate prank? "This isn't funny!"

"This isn't a joke."

"Comon' Sherlock, you of all people, this... this is... it's impossible." John held out his arms slightly, almost in a begging manor. John was begging for this all to be a joke.

"John," Lestrade comforted, "It's okay, were trying to figure out what's going on."

"THEY'RE JUST DREAMS!" John swung his hands about angrily.

"I had Lestrade look into the other deaths you described. They're all real John. They happen about a day after you dream about them. It's fascinating."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade elbowed him. "For once could you _not_ be you?"

John just stood there silently. Almost lifeless. This was too weird.

Getting to sleep that night was difficult. John didn't want to have another dream. He really didn't want to dream about someone dying again. Now it was even worse. There was this thing about his being some kind of seer? Like he could see the future. He didn't want to wake up knowing some poor bastard was gonna kill themselves the next day. And what's with all these suicides anyway? It must've just been some weird epidemic? Maybe...

John could feel his eyes get heavy as he tried to stay awake. His efforts were in vain. He was soon asleep. Sure enough, John had another of his deadly dreams. He wished it would all just go away. Why was he having to deal with these nightmares? Always death. Always falling and always sad.


	3. Another Dream

Chubby and charred fingers caressed a picture of a beautiful woman as manly tears dripped silently onto it's glass frame. It was probably a man who worked construction judging by the char marks. The large fingers then shakily shifted over to a red marker that lay near a large calendar, no doubt taken off the wall just to be marked. The man slowly marked off the day. It was Marni's Death Anniversary according to the tiny print written within the little square. This man must have lost his wife. Sniffles could be heard ringing throughout the room as he set the picture gently down onto the table again. Being sad on a spouses' death anniversary was ordinary, even expected, but John's dreams were never ordinary.

When the man opened the door to his balcony, it became clear what he was about to do. After he jumped, John tried to wake himself up. With a crack, the man's head hit hard against the concrete, he no doubt managed to break other bones as well. The street cars honked and sirens blared once again. Another suicide dream that left John waking up in a panic. Always death. Always falling and always sad.


	4. A Little More Human

"C'mon Sherlock. You can't possibly be serious." John pleaded as he tried to stop him from leaving the flat.

"John, this is the second suicide you've dreamt _before_ it happened." Sherlock knotted his blue scarf as he continued walking around and adding various articles of clothing. "I'm going to investigate because I want to understand this anomaly. It's not humanly possible."

"I know its not Sherlock but- Can you just wait a second!?" John reached out, hoping to catch Sherlock by his coat sleeve.

He didn't.

John's rushed attempt to catch his roaming flatmate resulted in a rather awkward situation. As John reached, Sherlock's long legs aided him in getting just a few inches further then John had anticipated. When the sleeve was no longer there to support him, John stumbled, crashing into Sherlock and pulling the two of them to the ground. After John rubbed his head, attempting to soothe the ache he was now feeling, he looked down to see a strange position they were in. Sherlock was beneath him, or rather, he was on top of Sherlock? Yup. He was straddling Sherlock with his hands on the man's firm chest. John just sat there for a moment, staring down and admiring Sherlock's bust beneath him. He didn't exactly dislike this... It wasn't until Sherlock started to stare back at him questioningly that he actually started to leave. He didn't want it to be too awkward.

"S-Sorry... I didn't mean to uhh..." John muttered.

Sherlock caught John's hips before he could escape. For a while he just stared, enjoying the feeling of having the man so close to him. Sherlock stared at the doctor who blushed awkwardly and turned his head away. Sherlock couldn't help but be interested in his reactions. John himself was like an experiment. Why would John be blushing? Sherlock wanted to make him blush again. But, Sherlock didn't know if John would reject him or not. Sherlock wanted to be sure before he did anything. Although he knew he was most likely right (naturally), if there was even the slightest chance he was wrong and John didn't like him back, their friendship would be ruined forever. John needed a friend right now more then ever. He couldn't be selfish this time.

Sherlock wasn't allowed to pursue John romantically right now.

"Sherlock... are you planning to let me go?" John didn't face him directly.

"Oh sorry. I got distracted."

Sherlock shifted the doctor off his lap, trying to be careful not to hurt him while at the same time appearing not to care. It was hard. After he stood, Sherlock wiped the dust from his coat with a swift movement of his hands, masking his desire to help John to his feet. He'd actually manage to distract himself away from the little man until he was being called out. "Sherlock!" John pushed at his arm.

"What?" Sherlock asked in a slightly startled tone.

"I've been calling you for a while. Are you alright?"

Sherlock straightened his scarf with pride and started walking toward the door, "I'm fine. Let's get going or Anderson will beat us to the scene."

"What's wrong with-"

"That pest will find some way to screw up the scene I have no doubt."

"Sherlock," John reached for his arm again, managing to grab it this time, "Can we not go?"

The detective ignored the warm feeling of John's hand on his arm as he spoke, "Why not?"

"I... I just... The whole thing makes me feel rather sick." John confessed.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, but I really would rather stay here." John stared down at the floor boards, keeping his grip on the other man's sleeve.

"I want to get to the bottom of this. It's interesting. It's be a waste to just leave things as they are."

John felt sick again. "You know, every night I've been dreaming about people dying. There's been lots of them! You think this is fun?"

John's words stung.

"I'm not getting good sleep. I'm stressed out, and _you_ are treating it as an _experiment_!" Outraged words pierced like spears.

Sherlock tilted his chin up, "Does that bother you?"

"You know, sometimes I wish you were a little more human."

With that, John left Sherlock standing at the door. The detective shuttered only after hearing the door to John's bedroom slam with anger. If only he could make John understand his curiosity couldn't be helped. Sherlock really did want to help him, but he couldn't do that in the dark. Secretly, it was killing him to not be able to understand this, to not be the one who knows. He was a natural born show-off. He couldn't help it.

"John...I'm sorry..."

The front door to apartment 221B closed with detestable creaks as the worlds smartest man tried to comprehend being 'a little more human'.


	5. Shaking

John lifted his legs to his gut in attempt to feel a little more comforted. He looked over at the tea he'd set on the table, debating weather or not he actually wanted to drink it. He was starting to loose himself in all the madness. He didn't want to be the one dreaming people's deaths. He didn't want to fight with Sherlock either. John shut his eyes slowly as he rested his face into his knees. Secretly, he hoped Sherlock would be back soon.

When the front door finally opened, Sherlock stormed in and started rattling about with different bottles of multi-colored liquid. He missed some, examined others, then started flipping pages in a book. "John I think I've got something. It may just be a dead end, but it's worth following."

He continued with his work, twiddling on his phone and quickly skimming book pages. He'd stopped playing with the potions and such a while back, but every now and then turned to give them a questioning glance. "John come over here I think I know-"

Sherlock looked over to see John curled up in himself. He was sleeping. This might have been the first semi-peaceful sleep John had had in a while. Sherlock didn't smile, but it was definitely a pleasant surprise to him. He carefully draped one of the couch blankets over the little man, smiling to himself when John snuggled into it. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was genuine and heartfelt. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock placed a warm, lingering kiss on the man's forehead.

When John stirred, Sherlock was startled and immediately turned his back, hoping John hadn't noticed his kiss. He returned to the large book on the table and flipped through his phone. "Are you awake John?"

He wasn't. John had only started dreaming, and he wasn't stirring, he was shaking. Sherlock returned to him, desperately wanting to hold him, calm him down. Maybe it would be okay just this once? Sherlock first just put a hand gently on John's shoulder, taking pride when his shaking calmed a little. He tried a little more, sitting down beside him and letting his arm wrap around John's back. Cautiously, Sherlock held John. It'd probably be better to get him into bed.

John was lighter then Sherlock had anticipated. He'd lost weight. Sherlock detested the thought of leaving John in his bed. He'd no doubt start shaking with fear again. These nightmares were taking their toll. John wasn't sleeping well, he wasn't eating right, and it was starting to drive them apart. Hoping it would help, Sherlock climbed into the bed next to John, holding the frightened little man close, relishing his warmth. "It's going to be okay John. I'm going to fix this."

Sherlock hardly slept, so he just sat there, completely content with holding John, wishing he could be doing it under other circumstances. John's dreams meant something big was going to happen. He'd started researching things that maybe were beyond science. Always Death. Always falling, and always sad. What did it mean!?


	6. Dead Man Walking

"Come along John." Sherlock ordered as the two exited the cab and headed for a somewhat shabby flat.

John looked at the door with caution as they approached, "What in the world are we doing here Sherlock?"

"There's a woman who dabbles in experiments and evaluations on test subjects as I do."

"So... she's a scientist as well?" John questioned.

"Well, not exactly..." Sherlock coughed, "She experiments in the paranormal."

John paused before they'd made it to the door and started laughing, "She's a fortune teller right?" the laughter boomed, "You know they're mostly smoke and mirrors right? Who could have imagined, you, the 'see it to believe it' detective, a mystic."

Sherlock grunted, "I'm not a mystic. Its simply that this is an area we hadn't considered and due to the fact you're rapidly deteriorating I figured it was the next best thing to spending pointless hours searching for something that isn't there."

"Sherlock, we should just give up. I don't see how this lady can help us."

"I'm not giving up."

John smiled a little, it was nice to know that Sherlock wasn't about to let him down. It wasn't in his nature to give up. He'd always have the last word even if it killed him. Sherlock was always like that. The pair stepped up to the wooden door, its paint cracked and torn. When the woman answered, John took in her figure. She was slender, almost bony thin. She was about in her forties maybe fifties. Her hair was flat and lifeless as it hung down just below her large earlobes, it's silver strands complimenting the golden brown making her look almost younger then she was. John stared at her bare feet beneath her ankle length dress that puffed out a bit, giving her a little more shape then she really had. "Hello. Mister... Holmes? and friend yeah?" She had a thick accent. Italian maybe?

"My name is Athandrea. Please come come. Inside. Outside is cold."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically, seemingly annoyed by the way she spoke. "It tends to be cold in the fall in London."

Athandrea smiled politely back at him, "Yes, in home is warm, outside is cold. Where I come from outside is warm too."

John smiled as the two bickered about weather for a while, and was surprised to hear that this little lady was actually triumphing over Sherlock's intellect. She was quite clever, and seemingly enjoyed showing off her own intellect as much as Sherlock did. Athandrea waited until both John and Sherlock were seated before taking her own seat in the large room, littered with pillows and colorful curtains and beads hung in various places and even grouped together. It was indeed a warm home, she was right, but not only the temperature, there was a certain feel about the place. It was friendly.

Athandrea listened to Sherlock explain the situation in detail. When he asked John to explain the dreams, he stumbled numerous times, distracted by the stares he was getting. Athandrea was looking him over, from his head to toes, but... she wasn't looking _at_ him. It almost felt like she was looking _through_ him. John was starting to feel a little sick, and wished that she would stop. He tried his best to continue the conversation and ignore her twitchy eyes as they examined him, judged him, no, read him. She was getting a read on him. He could just tell. It was hard to explain.

Athandrea stood before he'd even managed to finish explaining the first dream. "Evil dreams taunt head. You can't sleep, don't eat. Very, very sad." Athandrea stooped down in front of him, holding his face in her palms, pressing her forehead to his. "You wish to see why dreams choose you. Why you see these... terrible things. People die." She closed her eyes and muttered something, "Always Death, always falling."

"What did you say?" John couldn't comprehend what this woman was doing.

She really had been reading him.

"You see these people die before they do. They die in your head, they die tomorrow." Athandrea stood tall now, staring down at John with a look of pitty. "They die, you die. You die so much..."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, concerned, "What do you mean _he_ dies."

Athandrea turned to Sherlock, as if she'd forgotten all about him and was now irritated he was there, "He dies much! You call me because he is dying. He dies..." Athandrea stretched a bony hand out and places it claimingly over John's heart. "Inside. Inside he dies, over and over."

John could feel himself starting to cry, but couldn't understand why.

"You see death and future. You are like me. We are same." Athandrea leaned over and whispered into John's ear, "We are dead man walking."


	7. Mad Woman

John nearly fell out of his chair, "What do you mean dead man walking?!"

Athandrea became frantic, as if she was trying to understand his reaction as well as make him understand her words in a different way. Her motions became partly trying to convince him of something, and another part mad. "You know! You know, you know, you know!" she screamed. "No! You know! You sit! You listen!"

Athandrea was becoming rabid and almost violent as she screamed her message at John. What the hell was this? "Athandrea calm down!"

She didn't calm, in fact, she grabbed some of the pillows from the floor and started throwing them around the room. "You know! You know, you know, you know! You see it! You feel it! We are same! Dead men walking! Dead men walking! Listen to us! Listen! Dying, dying, so much dying."

Athandrea stopped, only for a moment. She turned in almost a jolt to Sherlock, who'd been watching her the entire time with fascination. "You!" she croaked, "You die before him! You die! He sees it! You die! HaHAHAhahAAha." She was cackling now.

"Sherlock this woman is mad. Let's leave!" John yelled over all the teeth-grinding noise she'd started creating. "Sherlock!"

Pillows flew into the beaded curtains, pulling them off walls in clustered piles that fell to the floor. Lamps crached against hard surfaces and sent shards of glass flying about, a table hit the door just as Sherlock and John slammed it shut.

Athandrea froze, shaking almost. They were both gone now. She didn't want them here. She didn't want John here. The man could see horrible things, and he should never have told anyone. She never did. She never told anyone what she saw. She didn't say anything, up until her husband died before her eyes.

Up until he died the same way she'd dreamed. She died herself the day she'd lost him. Athandrea and John were alike.

Dead Men Walking


	8. Zombie

John never wanted to go back there. Even after his dreams continued. He'd solve this for himself. He didn't need anyone else's help. John knew he was strong, his pride and maybe even a bit of fear is what restrained him to the walls of 221B. So there were more out there like him, others who could see these things? Maybe he and Athandrea weren't alone. Maybe there was hope? Or a way to struggle through it?

John stopped talking about his dreams with Sherlock, but the detective knew once he'd had another one. It would show up on the news the next day. The mornings when John woke up without dreams were awkward and silent, as if the friendship they'd had before had completely vanished. Sherlock was growing more and more distressed as days passed, weeks, a month. A month of silent mornings and friendless afternoons. They were both lonely, but John would just sit by the window, cup of tea in hand, his legs drawn up to his chest, staring out the window silently. It was as if the world weighed his shoulders.

A month was too long for Sherlock. Giving John space wasn't going to help, he was loosing his blogger. The blogging had stopped all together, and John would rarely attend cases with him. It was lonely having no one to talk to, and painful trying to keep his thoughts bottled up in his own head. So Sherlock pinned John against the wall, ready to confront him. It was time to talk about it. "John."

Words wouldn't form, Sherlock just stood there, helpless, his grip loosening as the seconds ticked by. John's eyes were lidded almost dead, he didn't seem to feel anything, he was just lifeless and limp. Lonely or forsaken. Hopeless.

"John you need to snap out of this." Sherlock confronted, regaining his bearings. "You've been a zombie for nearly a month."

"I'm just tired Sherlock, I'm fine." John tried to shift away, but Sherlock held tight.

"John! Come back!"

"Sh-Sherlock don't shout, I'm right here."

Sherlock took in a deep breath, "_You're_ not here. Someone else is walking around in your clothes."

"Sherlock, I'm-"

"For Christ sake! You're walking around like some kind of!..." Sherlock trailed off, stopping himself.

"Like some kind of dead man?" John finished.

Sherlock gave John a strained look, "John..."

"Sympathy doesn't suit you Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock off with force this time, "You should go back to your experimenting."

John left Sherlock to himself, once the room was cleared, Sherlock shuffled forward and slammed an angry fist into the wall, carving his print in it's wallpaper.


	9. Dreamers United

_I can't take it any longer, I don't want to live on if there's nothing to live for. Please, forgive me. _Forgive me...

_If there's one thing I'd live for it's you, but I can't stay._ Sherlock...

_Life is depressing and lonely. _John chuckled in his sleep.

_Why did these terrible things have to happen to me? Sympathy..._

_Goodbye _Goodbye


	10. Senile

"I'm telling you Sherlock it's the same!" John exclaimed as he started grabbing up random items from the flat.

Sherlock tagged along behind him, "What are you talking about?"

"All these people! They think the same way I do!"

"Are you trying to say you're suicidal John?" Sherlock only half joked.

John slipped into one of the sweaters in his hand. "No, no, well..."

"John!"

"That's not the point Sherlock! I'm thinking the exact same way all these people were."

Sherlock shook his head, trying to argue, "Your point?"

"Maybe that's the link! The thing that's allowing me to see all their deaths! Maybe its some sort of mental connection!"

"That still doesn't explain why you're dressing for an outing!" Sherlock jerked a scarf out of Johns arms.

"Because It's cold in December. I'm going to see Athandrea."

Sherlock flung the scarf over John's head and loosely around his neck before tugging at it, pulling John back towards him. With a devilish, yet concerned look in his eye, Sherlock growled, "_That_ woman almost tore our heads off! She's senile!"

John grinned before maneuvering away toward the door, "You two should get together over a coffee sometime," The door shut lightly, "You have a lot in common!"


	11. Want to be Alone

John walked up to the flat once more, taking a deep breath before knocking. To his surprise, it shifted open slowly, creaking with a eerie tone. It was already open? No, the lock had been tampered with. John felt to the back of his pants for his gun. Crap. He'd figured that with a mad woman like Athandrea, a gun would only worsen matters, but if someone has broken in, he was now unarmed. With his hands feeling naked and exposed, John stalked through the door.

"Athandrea?" John called, examining all the random objects. A pillow, a lamp, some dishes, all manor of items broken and shattered in scattered piles around the front hall. "Athandrea!" He yelled a little louder.

Maybe she really had been attacked. Maybe she'd thrown them at the attacker?

The flat was quiet, too quiet for John's taste really. Finally, he found his way to the front room. Athandrea was lying on the floor. "Oh god..." John ran over to her, sinking his knees to the floor and lifting her head into his lap. "C'mon, breathe!"

He was too late. Athandrea was cold to the touch, the bash in her head was infested by dried blood and started to even smell a little bit. How long had she been here? John hugged the corpse with affection, feeling partially guilty for all this. Why would someone want to kill Athandrea?

By the time the police arrived, John was already home.

"John!" Sherlock panicked as he rushed into the flat, eyes wide and lips parted. "John!"

"I'm right here Sherlock, what is it?" John answered calmly from his favorite seat by the window.

Sherlock sighed with relief, "Thank god."

"You know about Athandrea then?" John didn't look up.

"I do." Sherlock walked over to John speedily, full of questions as usual, "Did you get to talk to her?"

John took a shaky breath, "No..."

"Was she already dead when you-"

"She'd been dead for days!" John stood up, meeting Sherlock halfway, leaving an uncomfortable amount of space left. "Why would someone kill her Sherlock?"

"I don't-"

"It's because of us and you know it! Something bigger is going on here! I'm going to find out what." John pushed his flat-mate out of the way and slipped into his jacket once more, stomping towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questioned.

John glared, "I need some air."

"I'll go with you-"

"No!" John kept his eyes on the floor, "I want to be alone."


	12. Catch You Later

John didn't exactly know where he was going, but he needed to get out of that flat. Snow was starting to fall, somewhat rare in London and beautiful to see. The snowflakes nipped at his nose, and the tips of his ears, but John didn't mind. His mind was slowly clearing and his temper calming. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started walking down the road. He still didn't know where he was going, but he needed to move. John slugged along the sidewalk, for what seemed like hours before he was interrupted. At first, he hadn't noticed the black car following him, but once he did, he thought he'd stop breathing.

John slipped his phone out of his pocket, ready to call Sherlock. Just as he hit the call button, the car stopped beside him, two men jumping out and reaching for him. John yelled Sherlock's name before they had a chance to drag him into the backseat. The phone crashed to the ground, its owner being shipped off to who knows where.

"John?" ... "John!"

Sherlock screamed vainly at the phone, his fear raging when he got no reply. John had called him, when he picked up all he could hear were yells and a small conversation between two men. Then it all went quiet. Sherlock shut his phone violently. If someone really did take his John, god help the poor bastard.

After jamming his arms into their sleeves he set for the door, taking the time to pull out his phone once more. He fiddled with it's keyboard and hit send.

**I need a favor. -SH**

**How may I be of assistance? **

**Someone's taken John. -SH**

**Watson? Afraid I can't be of assistance.**

**We had a deal! -SH**

**I can't help you. You can only help yourself.**

**Why so cryptic? -SH**

**I'm giving you friendly advice.**

**Friendly isn't the word for it, now why won't you help me? -SH**

**Who do you think took the beloved Doctor?**

Sherlock growled down at his phone.

**You've brought this upon yourself. We'd had a deal. -SH**

**True, but this is so much more fun.**

**We'll see. Catch you later. -SH**

**No you won't. ;)**


	13. Battle of Wits

"God... My head..." John groaned as he shook himself awake. He pulled vainly at the ropes constricting his wrists to the chair. His ankles were in a similar position, but his mouth was left uncovered. Thankfully. John tried to break free, but it was clear he wasn't getting out unless someone allowed him to. Eager to distract himself, John had a looka round the room. Apart from his, there were a few other chairs scattered about the room. All the same.

He didn't know where he was, but he did remember how he got here. Jumping someone on the street and tying them up wasn't exactly a friendly gesture. So he wasn't expecting tea and biscuits, but the rotting wood walls an flickering lights hardly were hardly hospitable. The walls were actually only partial wood boards, the rest was cracked cement, just like the floor. Some tiles still bordered the room, which was in fact quite large. There were a few long lights built into the ceiling, almost like the kind you would find in a school or a hospital. The lights flickered over a large, swinging, double door. This place really did look like a run down hospital. Commotion was starting behind those doors, there were a few gun shots, and a few men screaming orders.

What was happening? The mumbling continued, the more John tried to make out, the further away their voices seemed to be. Guards abandoning their post at his door maybe? He tried desperately to make out at least some words. "Open fire!" "Don't hold back!" He's here!"

Who? Who's here?!

A man stormed into the room, slamming the doors behind him and stalking directly over to John. "Stay quiet Doctor."

The man had a black suit with a crisp white shirt underneath, accompanied by a chic black tie and clip. Obviously this guy was running at least a bit of the show. His stubble and back-combed hair was at least making him... maybe... semi attractive. John glared at this figure, there was no way he was going to be swept up. He would however, like some answers.

"Who are you?" He asked boldly.

"I said stay quiet." The man seemed paranoid, if only a little, staring at the doors, but keeping his hands in his pockets. He didn't acknowledge John much, accept when he spoke. Maybe he could push a few more buttons, for the sake of curiosity.

"Why am I here?"

The man growled, obviously irritated. "SSHH!"

"Could you at least introduce yourself?"

The man turned, a dark look on his face, "You really have some balls don't you?"

John held his ground, and firmly returned the stranger's cold glance.

"Fine. Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

John chuckled, "Make a habit of singing your words?"

The man smirked, possibly amused, "A little, but playing with _other's_ words is so much more fun." Moriarty leaned in a little closer, "Wanna sing for me Johnny boy?"

This was becoming somewhat of a battle. A little battle of wits. "Why am I here?"

"Sorry, but that's still a secret." Moriarty pulled one of the chairs over, the seat facing the opposite direction. Moriarty straddled the chair, resting his elbows on it's back. "You really are quite the bit of trouble Doctor Watson."

"While we're at it, I'd like to know how you know me."

Moriarty smirked once more, "I have eyes everywhere. I know everything. Everyone in London lives in my web, the spider's trap. I pull all the strings."

"Awfully cryptic. Why am I here?"

"You ask too many questions. How about a game?"

"Why am I here?" John barked.

More commotion stirred behind the large doors, men yelling and more gunshots sounding. "Hurry!" "Don't let him through." "He-he's a demon!"

John didn't shift his gaze, "Who's here?"

Another man screamed, "Sherlock Holmes!"


	14. The Experiment

"Hurry!" "Don't let him through." "He-he's a demon!" Another man from behind the doors screamed, "Sherlock Holmes!"

"Sherlock!" John cried out, relieved.

Moriarty stood violently from his chair and punched Watson square in the face, emitting a loud whimper of pain. "I said to keep quiet Johnny boy!"

"Sherlock!" he called again, receiving another cruel fist to the face. He didn't give up. John received punch after punch, blood starting to drip from his nose and his eye throbbing intensely. "Sher-" His cries were starting to be silenced before hand now. Moriarty was becoming desperate.

"Shut up I said!"

John tugged at his bonds, the rope shards cutting into his skin and splintering. Moriarty's silencing finally stopped, leaving John to just sit there, cowering beneath his shadow. John took deep breaths, gathering up his courage to speak once more. His throat was hoarse and scratchy, "A-are you... the one who killed... Athandrea?"

Moriarty wiped his mouth on a sleeve and turned cruelly at his captive, "She failed."

"What are you talking about?! That woman did no harm by-" John started coughing violently, his voice cracking.

Moriarty giggled, "You really don't know anything do you?"

John spit a chunk of blood from his mouth, disgusted. Gasping between words, he replied, "What... is it that I... should know?"

"Your gift!"

John furrowed his brow, "My dreams?"

"A successful experiment. You see, our other test subjects failed. They went rather loony, like your friend, and had to be put down."

The doctor took in the information slowly, "We're... test subjects?"

"Tea Johnny boy. The number one most consumed in Britain. It's too easy."

John's breathing had started to slow as he caught up with it, and his words were now more calmed and in sentence, "Why us?"

"Oh, most of our subjects are at random, but you. Oh..." Moriarty leaned his face dangerously close to Watson's, "You're a special case." he stalked along behind John, his mouth whispering into the doctor's ear, making him shiver. "You see, we had some help in our research. Only the best of the best. Oh he was more then willing to help. After all, experiments _are_ what he lives for."

"No- No way!"

"Athandrea was a married woman. Her husband was working with us as well."

"No!"

"You see, Sherlock was just dying to get in on a piece of the action. Of course, it was all on a need to know basis, couldn't have you homely fellows running off to tattle."

"Sherlock would never-"

"You were a pawn." Moriarty snapped. "You were what kept him going Johnny boy. He thought that-"

The large doors burst open violently, Sherlock bursting in, gun in hand and blood staining his jacket and splattered across his face. His eyes were alive an full of rage, glowing red it seemed. As he waltzed in, Sherlock kept his fiery gaze locked on Moriarty.

"We had a deal."

"That deal was demolished the moment we realized John was a successful subject."

"He was never supposed to be a subject!" Sherlock screamed.

Moriarty giggled cruelly, "That wasn't up to you."

"So then Athandrea, telling me it was coincidental, all a lie. You broke our deal on purpose."

"You were foolish enough to think his dreams were coincidental?" Moriarty snickered, "You're loosing your touch my friend."

"Oh no." Sherlock smiled. "I just wanted to make sure you intended this."

Moriarty frowned, "What?"

"I realized you were betraying me the moment John started this. I pretended to be in the dark because I was curious as to what you intended to do. Now that its all laid out on the table," Sherlock slowly inched forward, his tone dark and frightening, "It's within the interest of our agreement that I kill you."


	15. Wrong Day to Die

"You can't kill me Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled, "Why is that?"

With swift movement, Moriarty pulled a blade up to Watson's neck, laughing as if he'd already won. That didn't stop Sherlock. He continued moving forward at a slow and menacing pace, his gun dangling at his side. The only flinched for a second, seeing a small train of blood slither down the crevices of John's neck. When he was only a little more then a foot away, Moriarty made his move, "Don't take another step! I'll cut him. I'll bleed him dry!"

"And loose your results?"

"Results are dull, but today is the wrong day to die. I've got a big day planned, and I just couldn't bear to part before then. You understand I'm sure."

Sherlock growled. "You used John as an experiment, threaten his life, try to manipulate me, and now you expect me to just let you walk away?"

"No. I expect you to take a bullet like a good little solider while I carry off your pet."

The gunshot's fired from behind, and Sherlock fell to the ground, John screaming his head off as Moriarty dragged him from the room.


	16. Please!

Grubby hands of Moriarty's men pushed John into a long, black, van. So they'd been planning Sherlock's arrival? They'd planned it all! John whimpered helplessly to himself as the car drove off. He'd been bait for Sherlock's death the entire time? No. That couldn't possibly be.

The driver started talking to the man beside him, "We're almost there. Where do we put him once we get there?"

"Boss said to feed him what's there. Then he's supposed to sleep."

"Sleep?" The driver questioned.

"Yeah." There was a short, smug pause, " 'sleep'."

So they want me to dream again. John was starting to feel as though it was all pointless. He couldn't get out of this no matter how hard he tried. It's not as though he had anything to go back to either, now that Sherlock was dead. It wasn't sinking in well, John couldn't breathe. When the van stopped, the two men hustled him up the stairs of a big building, semi vibrant with a white brick design. The hall was grand, a chandelier to two hanging from it's high leveled ceiling and the red carpet pulling at the tips of his feet as they scuffled along.

"Don't let him trip down the stairs."

"Alright, alright. I hear ya."

The two men pushed him up the stairs and into a room. The room was simple, a table and a bed at best. But the bed was delicious, soft pillows and a red and gold cover design. It made you want to jump into it and doze. In the middle of the room there was the fine wood table, set with a steaming meal and what looked like wine. The men carefully sat him down, John guessed he was considered good merchandise at the moment. 'Boss' would probably be upset if he went against regulation.

He didn't realize how hungry he was until he'd started eating. John couldn't even remember the last time he ate. He'd just been sitting in his window drinking tea for most of the last week really. He bit into some moist chicken and potatoes, savoring the taste. And the wine! It tasted amazing, too refined to be cheap. He felt drowsy. He hadn't planned on sleeping at all, but his arms had gone limp and his legs were sore. "What- what was in that food?"

One of the men laughed, "Probably a sleeping drug mate. From your reputation I'd figured you a smart man."

John could only moan as he was escorted over to the bed. He cried out in his mind, _No! No, don't make me sleep! I don't want to dream! I don't want to see anymore death!_

_Please! _

**_PLEASE!_**


	17. Casey

He knew he was dreaming now, John could see blue fading the sides of his vision. He remembered being forced to sleep. Forced to see death again. Over and over. Always sad, always falling, always death. He took in the scene before him, St. Bartholomew's Hospital. A familiar place, that was just downtown. His vision flashed to the top of the roof, where a man was standing on the edge. Another suicide. He took in the man's figure. Curly hair, jacket flowing in the wind... tall... blue scarf? SHERLOCK! John saw himself on the street below, crying through a cell phone. His dream self screamed his name over and over, "Sherlock!"

"Goodbye John."

Sherlock fell, right before John, onto the hard ground, a teeth grinding cracking sound accompanying him.

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed as he sat up violently in his bed. He screamed and screamed until the guards ran in, guns at their sides.

One of the men knelt beside him, trying to soothe him as he cried. The other only sniggered, mocking him. Why did he see Sherlock's death? Sherlock was already dead! Wasn't he? This wasn't right. The guard hugged him gently, calming his nerves best he could. John shook in his embrace. "Not Sherlock, it couldn't be Sherlock. Anything but that. No!" John muttered to himself as he hid his face in the guards arm.

"For crying out loud shut him up already!" The other guard huffed, turning for the door.

"Shh, shh, it's okay John. Calm down a little. It's okay."

John was silent, he just sniffled.

The guard smiled down at him with encouragement. "It's alright John."

John sniffed again, "You know my name?"

He laughed a little, "We all do. You're the famous John. You see people dying before they actually die. It's an amazing talent."

"It's no talent!" John barked, pushing the man away a little. "It's a curse your boss put on me! I'm only famous because I'm the first '_experiment_' that didn't fail!"

He was crying again. The guard showed a saddened expression. "I know. It's okay."

"You don't know anything!" John retorted with anger, "You work for these disgusting people!"

The man stared at the floor. "My father used to work here with me."

"Wh-what?"

"My father and I used to work here together. He worked in the lab and I fronted for him as a towel boy type. I fetched materials and things. I had no idea what they were testing, but my father said it was going to change the world."John's sobbing faded. He wiped his tears on his sleeve and listened to the man's story. "We worked together up until he died. I stayed at home with my mother after that. She was having strange dreams. She woke up screaming and crying..."

John felt his heart drop to the bottom of his chest as the story continued, "Only recently did I find out what they did here. They give people these terrible nightmares, they take away their sanity for the sake of a world invention. It's cruel. It's not voluntary either. My father is the one that put the drug in her tea. He served it to her. He knew exactly what he was doing!"

"What was your mother's name?"

The boy lifted himself from the floor and took a seat on the edge of the bed, turning slightly to face John as he spoke, "Athandrea." He smiled.

John smiled sadly, "I met her."

"You what?"

"I met your mother before I was taken. Before she... died. I'm the one who found her." John smiled, "She must have been a lot stronger then I am."

"My name is Casey." The guard smiled, holding out his hand.

John shook it, "So why are you here? I mean, this project killed your family."

"When I found out that the company killed my mother, and that my father was in on it, I wasn't angry. I was sad, and almost vengeful. I just want this to stop. My fight wouldn't solve anything, but I know I can help other's who were caught in the crossfire. The last lady they experimented on almost was a perfect one. I still remember helping her calm down after her dreams."

"What happened to her?" John asked nervously.

"They decided they didn't need her anymore. She refused to share her information with them."


	18. Found You

"Why, don't we change the subject? What did you dream about?"

John didn't say a word.

"John please," Casey begged, "You've gotta talk to me. Please!"

"No."

"John..."

"Why!?" John cried. "Why do I have to see these things?!"

Casey nodded sadly, "It was someone you know wasn't it?"

John stared at Casey in awe, "H-How did you-"

"My mother had that exact same look on her face when she saw my father slit his wrists. It's that same look of shame, and regret."

John sighed heavily, "It... I dreamt that Sherlock died. He jumped off the top of St. Barts. But- that's not possible right? I mean, he died."

"Don't talk to loud John." Casey shushed him, "Not all the guards are as, ehem, 'understanding' as I am. You can't mention a word of this."

John nodded in recognition. He fall back onto the soft bed, his head sinking into the pillows. Across the building, a man in a shining suit was flipping through his phone in frustration, trying to solve the problem himself. He kept receiving these annoying texts. One's that could only be from one person.

**I'm coming for you.**

**I'm coming for you.**

**I'm coming for you.**

The man he'd cheated.

**I'm looking for you.**

**I'm looking for you.**

**I'm looking for you.**

The man he'd stolen from.

**Nowhere to hide.**

**Nowhere to hide.**

**Nowhere to hide.**

The man he'd shot.

**Found you.**

Sherlock Holmes.


	19. Massacre

What happened over the course of about a half hour after that was a bloody massacre. Bodies plagues the halls, some just had been shot in the head or heart, while others hadn't been as fortunate. There was sticky red blood creeping down the sides of walls, and more pooling beneath the dead. You'd think an army had broken in, you'd maybe even think a natural disaster if it wasn't for the bullet holes that marked some of the goons. You'd think something involving a mass amount of force and soilders, but in truth, the entire building was littered with the bodies of men who worked for Jim Moriarty, put there by one raging individual. Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock ran up the stairs at the end of the hallway with light footsteps echoing as he leapt from step to step once more, making it to his fourth floor already. The gun shot steadily, streaming fire into the key points of his enemies. If the gun didn't kill them, he'd slice through their stomach with the dagger he'd stolen off a corpse by the front door. His cot, which was only just starting to dry from the previous floor, dripped with even more hot and sticky blood. bits and traces splashing over his face and neck. He couldn't say he didn't feel powerful when he finished killing all the guards throughout the hallway, but he desperately wanted to wash his face clear before seeing John. John would be frightened.

Sherlock didn't exactly know where they were holding his flat mate, but he figured he'd be on a higher floor. The hallways had rows upon rows of doors on either side, but he thought that was too mainstream for Moriarty, the scum who kidnapped John. The one who experimented on _his John_. He finished off the fifth floor with a shot right into a groaning goon's skull. There were about seven floors of the building, but it felt like a hundred. He dumped his empty gun to the floor and looted a few of the corpses, pocketing a few hand guns and some ammunition best he could. He stalked up the stair slowly this time, menacingly and waiting. Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets as he stepped into the hallway with a dark smile. The sixth floor had finally gotten the gist of what was going on and were waiting for him. They there were only about five of them on this floor, less then he'd found on previous floors certainly, but these ones were lined up to face him, their guns aimed and ready. He supposed he'd made his point clear after killing their colleagues. He could see the nervous sweat beaded on their foreheads. "If you don't want to die, I suggest you take me to Jim Moriarty." It wasn't a request, but more of an order.

One that they followed, understanding their positions. A few led him down the hall while others ran to their dead friends. Sherlock watched them go through the corner of his eye. There were only two guards on him now. If he could find out where John was, maybe he could get there easily now. Two guards was a walk in the park. The man to his left was shaking his gun, no doubt unintentionally. He was afraid, as he should be. It was only a moment before he heard a scream from one of the rooms as they passed it. Room 632. The scream belonged to John. It took less then thirty seconds to kill the guards.


	20. The Hug

When Sherlock slammed the door open, there was a goon holding John on the bed at the far end. John was crying. Was he hurting John? Sherlock darted forward and grabbed at the man, ripping him away from John. He threw Casey to the floor, climbing on top of him to personally punch him repeatedly in the face. Casey yelled a bit, but not much, he was a dignified guard and held up him arms to block the punches. "Sherlock! Sherlock stop it!" John screamed.

Sherlock tuned his flat mate out for a bit, but when he felt familiar hands claw at his shoulders, he turned to see John's sad face. "It's okay... he's a friend. Please stop."

John smiled sadly at Sherlock with outstretched arms which Sherlock ran to gladly. The hug was desperate, Sherlock burying his face into the side of John's while a few tears streamed down his face and wet Sherlock's cheek. behind them, Casey stood slowly, brushing the small trace of blood from his nose with his fingers. "You're Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock turned around to greet the guard, "Yeah sorry about that. I ah... misread the situation."

John chuckled at his side, Sherlock would hardly ever admit his mistakes. "This is Casey. Athandrea was his mother."

"Mother?"

"Yes." Casey jumped in, "My father offered her up for experiments when I was little. I didn't want anyone else to die."

"Moriarty killed her?"

"Yes."

Sherlock looked sternly at Casey, "Do you know where he is?"

"He's on the seventh floor, room 744. There's gotta be more guards up there though, how did you manage to get by the first six?"

Sherlock eyes John, who looked at him with curiosity before noticing the blood that still stained his face in stray splatters. "You killed them all."

Casey bowed in head in silence for a moment before honoring them, "God rest their souls. You really are the horrifying man we were warned about aren't you? Are you as brilliant as the rumors too?" Casey asked.

Sherlock would normally have taken a moment to scan the man and tell him his own life story, but he was busy yearning for Moriarty's neck in his hands. "Take John home."

"What?" John was upset as he was lead to the door, "Sherlock where are you going?"

"I have to visit an old friend."


	21. An Old Friend

Sherlock made sure that John was ushered out of the building before returning to the seventh floor. He tried to ignore his flat mate's expression as he maneuvered through the vast piles of corpses. John was certainly scared, but it was too late. He walked up flight after flight of stairs, eager to get his revenge, but not wanting to rush things. If he took his time nice and slow, Moriarty would be past his wits by the time he reached him. He'd keep the consulting criminal waiting, he'd pick at the man's brain and provide a mental torture. It was more satisfying then just killing him.

When he finally reached the door to room 744, Sherlock was fuming with excitement. He twisted the knob slowly, and let it creak open just as slow. He was greeted by Moriarty, no guards, just the skinny man in a silky black suit with his back turned to the door and looking out onto the street, "Finally." Moriarty hissed.

"Waiting for me?" Sherlock grinned.

"Not really."

Sherlock took a few steps forward, "Are you ready to die?"

"Die?"

"Yes." Sherlock was now at Moriarty's side, staring out at the window with him, "You took something precious of mine."

Moriarty chuckled, "People do get so sentimental about their pets."

Sherlock frowned, "He's not a pet."

"Then what would you call him?" Moriarty turned to face Sherlock, who continued to stare at the street, "An experiment? A lover? No... he's your pet and you know it."

"If I were you I'd stop badgering the man who already wants to gut you where you stand." Sherlock barked.

Moriarty was giggling now, "Let's take this to the roof shall we? I have something to show you." Moriarty turned, and started to walk away. "Trust me. It'll be worth your time. You've got the rest of your life."

"Rather cryptic." Sherlock stated, turning to follow.

"I'm not cryptic, I'm just insane." He grinned, "Now, how about the roof?"

Sherlock passed him in the hall and headed for the roof stairs, "No no no. Wrong roof Sherlock."

"Then where are we going?"

"St. Bartholomew's hospital."

"Why?"

Moriarty was still grinning, "I've got a few things to show you before you 'kill me'.""

"Why should I follow you there?" Sherlock asked, followed slowly behind anyway.

"Because my dear Sherlock," He replied, a happy kick in his step and his hands swinging at his sides within his pockets, "I like playing with you."

"Why would I play with you?"

"You'll have to wait and see."

Sherlock stood still, demanding of a better answer, "And suppose I don't?"

Moriarty's body still faced the staircase to the lower levels, but his head turned back and behind, "Do you remember a woman by the name of Irene Adler?"


	22. The Treasured

Sherlock tailed Moriarty into the back of a sleek black cab as their conversation continued, "Yes I remember. What does she have anything to do with this?"

"Oh she doesn't. At least, not anymore." he grinned.

"Not anymore?" Sherlock questioned.

Moriarty shifted atop the leather cushion to face his enemy with a knowing smile, "You see, I've been keeping close tabs on you since the beginning. I know about every person you've ever met. I can tell you the life story of the police man you ignored at a crime scene and the name, address or phone number of the woman you passed in the street. Everyone that ever stood within ten feet of the great Sherlock Holmes is being watched."

"I still don't-"

"For gods sake Sherlock!" Moriarty groaned, "I thought you weren't ordinary. Think."

"You know about my relation to miss Irene Adler, I understand that." Sherlock retorted. "Considering were on the way to the hospital, I'm expecting that you hurt her in some way to prove your position. Corpse? Maybe a coma, but corpse is more likely. A power play. You wouldn't have done that unless you knew you were about to die. A desperate last few minutes? No, you're too dignified for anything as pathetic as that. You expect to phase me out of killing you. If your intention is to save your own life you'll find I have no interest in stepping down from my position."

Moriarty grinned, "Good old Sherlock Holmes. Don't most people call you a show off?"

"Time to time, yes."

"While others call you brilliant, extraordinary, amazing." Moriarty's face glistened with pleasure in watching Sherlock's mood swing.

"John is _not_ your toy." he barked.

"You're right," Moriarty complied, "he's yours."

The cab finally slowed, parking in the front of the hospital. "I won't be following you to the morgue." Sherlock stated as the man gleefully jumped out.

"Oh, I'm not going to the morgue." Moriarty bounced up the steps and smiled back at Sherlock.

Who followed, filled with curiosity. The two continued their little battle of wits as they climbed their way up the numerous flights of stairs. "Remind me again why I don't kill you now?" Sherlock asked, reinstating his position of power as they ascended.

"Because as usual, your curiosity gets the best of you." Moriarty replied, "I had hoped you'd figure it out on the way over. I gave you plenty of clues. The consulting detective is led to the hospital rooftop after being told about the corpse of his old friend... and when I say friend."

Sherlock scowled. Two floors left, "But, as usual, you fall short of my expectations Sherlock. So ordinary!"

The rooftop door slammed open, and the sudden daylight was temporarily blinding. "Enough games."

"Oh, but games are so much more fun. Just telling you would be too boring." Moriarty was facing Sherlock, but walked steadily backwards toward the edge, a jump in his step, like a little kid, "There's one more clue I'm willing to give you."

"Which is?"

The two now stood near the ledge side by side, staring down at the people scattered in the street. A few cards drove by, a couple cabs, then one stopped. Four men got out. People in the street started screaming while others scooped up their children and ran. Two of the men carried guns, shoved in the faces of the last two. One of them Sherlock recognized, "That's John."

"I know about your deepest feelings, the ones you keep closest, the ones you treasure Sherlock."

"You're going to kill him."


	23. The Fall

Moriarty nodded with a smile, "If I die, those men will pull the trigger."

"But?" Sherlock asked, "You wouldn't have brought me here, or told me that unless you intended to use it as material for a forced hand."

"If I die then your beloved pet dies too, but... if _you_ were to die..."

"What does that matter?"

"Those guys have a grudge against you, they volunteered for a front row seat position."

Sherlock scowled, "If I were to die then John would spend the rest of his life in a glass jar." Sherlock reminded. "Experiment or not, I'll remind you again, he is _not_ your toy."

Moriarty grinned viciously, "I told you I knew about everyone. When I say that I do mean all of them."

Sherlock cringed, "Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly..."

"All dead."

"Unless I jump."

Moriarty turned his face so his hot breath stuck to Sherlock's ear, "When you die, I may give John a try of my own."

Sherlock growled, then suddenly perked up, smiling, even laughing a little. Moriarty furrowed his brow, "What?" The laughter continued, "What did I miss?!"

"This experiment, it's run entirely by you I assume?"

Moriarty was silent, "Those men will have no boss if you're dead, so why would killing John matter?"

"They'd follow my orders."

"They work for an organization, and their mob boss just left the building."

"They've still got a bone to pick with you. There's no way you'd just walk away."

"Oh I know," Sherlock gripped tightly at Moriarty's coat, smiling with triumph, "This experiment dies with the both of us."

With a steady hold, Sherlock swayed, falling down the side of the building, and dragging the consulting criminal along with him.

Just before hitting the pavement, he thought to himself. _I won._

"SHERLOCK!"


	24. Funerals

"Maybe things could've been different", John cried as he caressed the tomb stone, "Maybe if I'd been a little stronger, or braver..." He wiped a few tears from his cheek before falling to his knees, voice cracking as he begged, "I'm so sorry Sherlock! Please!"

John rested his head against the cool stone, the carved name scratching at his skin, "Please, Sherlock just for me. Don't..." he took a stern breath, trying to steady himself, "Don't.. be dead. Just for me. Just stop it. Just stop this."

"You know," he sniffled, "I never got to tell you... I didn't get to tell you much of anything after you found me." John wiped his face free of tears once more, when he tried to speak again, his voice cracked, "I love you Sherlock Holmes. For a long time... I-" the tears were flowing in steady streams down his face now, dampening his cheeks and reddening his eyes, "I love you!"

"Please come back to me. I promise I'll be better. I'll be braver, and- and stronger for you. I promise, so..." John's voice was high pitched and full of sobs, "Please!"

It was another half hour before John could finally gather the courage to leave, he grieved for ages, screaming at the tomb stone numerous times. Sherlock couldn't help but reach out from behind the trees. He'd almost run to him a couple of times, but he couldn't right now. John would probably punch him a little later, but there was still work to do. The experiment needed to be permanently shut down. He couldn't help his eyes from watering a little himself as he watched his John walk away.


End file.
